A World Without You
by crazy-wee-cat
Summary: After John is quite badly hurt at the scene of a crime, Sherlock reacts in a way which allows John to finally see that his sociopathic best friend cares. One-shot, set sometime between Baskerville and Reichenbach. Please read and review!


_After John is quite badly hurt at the scene of a crime, Sherlock reacts in a way which allows John to finally see that his sociopathic best friend cares. _

_I don't own Sherlock, or anything associated with the TV show and the novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle._

Running a pace or so behind Sherlock, John Watson inwardly grinned as he felt the adrenaline rush through him. The two of them had had a bit of a lull in cases recently, the last major one having been Baskerville, and Sherlock had become insufferable, refusing any case which didn't reach his stupidly high standards. He even refused to look at some cold cases when Lestrade offered, muttering "dull" in a voice which could only be described as condescending. John had pretended to ignore his flatmate's overly irritable state, picking up a few extra shifts at the clinic, trying to appear calm and happy for the sake of Sherlock. But the truth was he wanted something to come up almost as much as his best friend. He didn't just follow Sherlock around, despite what some police officers probably thought – he loved the chase and, dare he say it, the danger.

Naturally, when this particular murder case came up, and after Sherlock had deigned it worthy of his input, the pair jumped at the chance to work with the team. Sherlock had just solved the answer to the puzzle mere minutes ago, and so currently John and Sherlock were in solid pursuit of the psychotic murderer.

It was dark, rain pattering down slightly, their footsteps and harried breathing echoing off the narrow walls. While this might have been a disadvantage to them, as it meant the criminal they were in pursuit of could hear them, it also meant that they could hear the criminal. Which meant that when he suddenly stopped, assumedly when he discovered the dead end at the end of the alleyway, Sherlock had the sense, paired with the sharp eyesight of someone younger than the doctor, to stop before he hit the trapped man. John, however, did not have quite the same reaction times, and, not realising why or even that his partner had stopped, he ran straight into the waiting arms of the person they were chasing.

Both slightly winded from the collision, he gained the upper hand as his military instincts kicked in. Watson grappled with the man, ignoring a dull pain in his side as he grabbed his wrists and held them down, barely noticing as the force with which he held his enemy caused his hands to open reflexively and a glinting object to fall to the ground. He quickly registered Sherlock at his side, aiding him in keeping the man down. Eventually, the two of them had to knock the guy out with a sharp blow of his head against the concrete, and after restraining him with the handcuffs that Sherlock was keeping for some reason in his coat pocket ("Lestrade was being annoying," he muttered breathlessly to John) the two of them stood, both trying to recover their breath.

"Good work, John," the taller man said, pulling his phone out and turning away to call Lestrade as the adrenaline began to wear off.

"Ah, Detective Inspector," He greeted. He listened for a moment and said, "Well, you're a bit late, John and I have already successfully detained your murderer."

John chuckled wearily at Sherlock's antics, feeling drained and slightly dizzy. The thudding pain he had noticed earlier abruptly returned, a low gasp leaving his lips as he put a hand to his side. Wincing, and feeling sudden tremors he hadn't noticed due to the rush of energy the chase had given him, he looked down and saw a dark stain spreading across his light grey jumper.

At this point, Sherlock started to turn and said into the phone "Do hurry, Lestrade, John and I were going to get some Chinese before – John?"

John looked up at his best friend, his face paler than Sherlock had ever seen it. "John?" He said again, the urgency in his voice catching the attention of Lestrade. Questions rang through the phone, Lestrade's voice getting louder so that John could hear it even from where he stood, but Sherlock was focused on the blood spreading at an alarming pace across the doctor's second favourite woollen jumper.

The dizziness was becoming more prominent, and somewhere in John's brain, which was now incredibly hazy, he registered that he was losing a lot of blood, too much blood. Sherlock seemed to snap into motion, just in time it seemed to the doctor, as he felt his knees buckle and strong hands catching him under the arms. Sherlock carefully lowered him to the ground, a gentleness in him that John had only really seen when he was playing a part, usually trying to manipulate someone into giving them information vital to a case. He felt the wet concrete under his back, cold against his flushed skin, the gritty texture rubbing against his neck.

"No, no, no, no," he could hear Sherlock muttering, it seemed almost sub-conscious, and he wasn't sure if the man knew he was doing it. His own breath was coming in gasps as he struggled to remain awake. He realised that his friend was panicking slightly, and knew that he would have to somehow focus and instruct the detective.

"Sh-Sherlock," He gasped out, "Listen to me," His friend looked at him desperately. "You need to put pressure on the w-wound, okay," John closed his eyes and breathed carefully through his nose, trying to stay calm, "You need to keep a clear head."

"John – " He started.

"Sherlock, get your head in it, come on!" Sherlock pressed his lips together firmly, and then nodded, ripping his heavy, expensive jacket from his shoulders, before pressing it into John's side desperately. Pain engulfed him, and white noise erupted in his ears. When he came to again, through a cloud of pain, he noticed that Sherlock had his phone to his ear again, holding it between his head and shoulder, both hands pressing down onto the wound with all his might.

"I need an ambulance here as soon as is physically possibly, Lestrade. Sooner than physically possible, actually." Sherlock paused for a moment before shouting "_Now, Greg!"_

John had only heard Sherlock speak in that tone of voice once before, and it was when he had been scared out of his mind after seeing the supposed Hound of Baskerville. The sort of all consuming, paralysing, mind numbing fear that before Baskerville John had never imagined could take over a man like Sherlock, but it seemed like all over again Sherlock was experiencing true terror.

"John, listen to me," Sherlock said, his voice deep and fearful, "You need to stay awake, okay?"

He realised that he his eyes had been closing, and that he was absolutely exhausted. "Tired,"

"I know, John, but I need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that? For me?"

Even though Sherlock was trying to keep his tone light, there was a certain quality in his voice which made him realise that this was very important. He nodded. "This hurts like h-hell, Sherlock." He gasped out.

Sherlock laughed. It was scared and loud and unnatural, but it was a laugh. "Well, that's what happens when you allow yourself to get stabbed."

John gasped out a breath which almost resembled a giggle. "Yeah, sorry about that one." Sherlock's face above him blurred slightly, and he felt his eyes shut, he desperately needed to sleep.

"John, no!" he felt something tap on his face and opened his eyes in annoyance. Why wasn't he allowed to sleep?

"I want to sleep," he said gruffly, feeling like someone was repeatedly pounding his side.

"I know you do, but you can't, not yet."

He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a muffled groan as a roll of pain swept over him. He closed his eyes tightly, his ears ringing as he clenched his fists and swore loudly.

"Language, John," Sherlock joked weakly. At that moment footsteps pounded down the alley. John turned his head to see Lestrade sprinting towards them, Donovan on his tail.

"Oh, crap, John," was all he said, when he stopped. "Ambulance is on its way." He told Sherlock.

Donovan was standing, hand over mouth, looking absolutely horrified.

"Maybe," John started, closing his eyes as the pain peaked momentarily, "Ow, hmm, okay, maybe go detain the murderer, Sally? He could come round any minute now." Donovan nodded, running over to check on him, looking glad of something to do.

"What the hell happened here?" Demanded Lestrade, kneeling down by John's head.

"Got stabbed," John muttered. Sherlock snorted quietly, noting that even in the state he was in John was able to comfort others. Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Anything I can do?"

John shook his head, trying to clear it. "We need to keep him awake," Sherlock muttered absently. The two then proceeded in talking and tapping his face when he appeared to drop off slightly. The wait for the ambulance felt like hours, when in reality it was only a few minutes. Lestrade ran down the alley to show them the way, and before he knew it, John was on a stretcher and being rushed to the hospital, leaving Sherlock with the police, jacketless, cold and, though he would deny experiencing such simple human emotion...scared.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said as they both heard the sirens gradually moving away. The man was turned away from him, one hand caught in his dark curls. When he didn't reply, he said his name again before carefully placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I need to get to the hospital," he said, not moving to remove the inspector's hand. "I need to, I need to..." He swore loudly, and Lestrade was astonished to see tears on his cheeks when he turned to desperately look at the Detective Inspector, whose hand fell to his side.

"He's going to be okay, Sherlock," Greg said softly.

"_How can you possibly know that?" _He shouted, his voice echoing through the narrow street. Lestrade watched carefully, and Donovan looked shocked, her pale face staring over at the two of them quizzically. Then he turned away, his face a blank mask of stone and stalked back down the alleyway. Following him, Lestrade found him waiting at his car, and silently drove the other man to the hospital, marvelling at the fact that John Watson seemed to have allowed Sherlock to find a heart.

At some point in the ambulance ride from the alleyway to the hospital John passed out, and it was only some hours after his surgery when he woke up again. When he opened his eyes there was a nurse next to him, who smiled lightly and said: "Welcome back, Mr Watson,"

That was when a familiar voice said, "It's _Doctor_ Watson, actually, are you really that incompetent that you cannot even properly read his file to discover this? Or did you somehow manage to mishear my older brother when he said that Doctor Watson should receive the _highest_ of care? I could go on, nurse-whatever-your-name-is, but really I would like to talk to my friend here, and I see that you have to make a phone call you're conveniently avoiding by being here after your shift has ended, so if you could please leave that would be fantastic for everyone really."

Stuttering, the nurse tried to stay something, before rushing out. John thought he saw tears in her eyes, but he was so tired he couldn't really bring himself to care.

"Really, Sherlock, was that necessary?" John coughed, marvelling slightly at how parched he felt.

"Yes, John, it was." He muttered, before passing him a cup of water which John took gratefully. "How are you feeling?"

Slightly surprised by the question John said, "Um, yes, fine."

Sherlock thinned his lips and raised his eyebrows sceptically. "John," he started, and the doctor steeled himself for the coming deduction, "Firstly, I can see that your hands are shaking as you hold your water, indicating exhaustion and weakness despite the fact you have only just woken up. Your face is pale, again, showing a certain sign of weakness and possibly a feeling of pain, and all your movements are slow and careful, implying that despite the medication, you are in pain and are moving carefully to avoid any excess." He paused momentarily, studying his friend cautiously before continuing.

"While this is enough to confirm to me that you are not merely _'fine' _the fact that not only 48 hours ago you were stabbed by a murderer, but that in the past 48 hours you have undergone emergency surgery, and your heart has stopped not one, but two times. The fact you are even awake right now is not only unexpected, but, though I don't really believe in miracles per se, could certainly be described as _miraculous. _

"I also know that while you, as a doctor, like to worry about other people rather than worrying about yourself, and are loathe to even let others worry about you, but you should know John, that as my best friend, in these circumstances worrying about you is all that I can do, and the fact that you are lying in a hospital bed because of a case which I ultimately brought you into does nothing but worry me further. So please, John, don't just say you are _'fine'_ because I know you are anything but."

Both men were silent, momentarily staring each other down. John's heart had stopped? He had...died? John started to speak: "I'm sorry – "

"Don't be sorry, you didn't ask the criminal to stab you, did you?"

"Well, no, but –"

"Then what could you possibly have to be sorry about?"

"I worried you."

Sherlock clasped his hands on his knees before replying, "That's what friends do, isn't it?"

"I suppose..."

"But?"

"Since when did Sherlock Holmes conform to social norms?" John asked quizzically, only slightly teasing.

"Since when did I have friends, though?" he countered.

"Touche," John chuckled, before moving into a more comfortable position for his injury and yawning slightly.

"You're tired, you should sleep,"

He shook his head, "I've been sleeping for 48 hours, apparently." Before Sherlock could answer he cut in, "And besides, I have something to say to you first."

"Okay."

"Sherlock, you, um, you said something about it being your fault that I was there with you, chasing that criminal."

Sherlock nodded his head, "It was,"

"Well, I just thought I should let you know that it wasn't. I didn't have to follow you, did I? You said dangerous, and I came, remember? I knew what I was getting into when I first started. The first time I was kidnapped by Mycroft, and then again by those smugglers, and then by Moriarty...I knew what I was getting into each time, and just because this time could have been fatal doesn't mean I want to stop following you to these crime scenes."

"You could have died." Sherlock answered, his eyes showing a sign of the fear he had felt when he thought he had been close to losing his best friend. "And, John, I simply cannot allow you to...take that risk any more. I care, I do...as much as it pains me to admit it."

"Could be dangerous, you said."

"I was referring to that first case."

"But, to me, it was an indication of what my life would be after coming to meet you that day. You know that, don't you? You _never_ forced me to come on any of these cases, I love the chase, you _know _I do. I love the adrenaline, the rush. And you need an assistant, you said so yourself."

"But it's putting you in danger, you wouldn't be lying here if it wasn't for me."

"If it's helping you even the smallest bit, I would do it all over again. I don't want you hurt anymore than you want me hurt." For once, Sherlock was apparently lost for words. "Besides," John continued, "What makes you think you can stop me helping you with crime scenes in the future?"

Sherlock was, again, silenced, but not entirely convinced.

"This line of work is dangerous, Sherlock. For both of us. But I wouldn't have it any other way. This is _not your fault, _in the same way that it isn't mine, and it isn't Lestrade's. It's the fault of the man who plunged a knife into my torso, and only him, okay? It's not yours, and if anything like this ever happens again, it will not be yours then. Okay?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock nodded his head before admitting quietly, "It was just...when I saw the blood on your jumper my mind suddenly made me think of a world without...you." he hesitated before saying, "And I didn't like that world very much."

John knew how hard it must have been for Sherlock to admit that, and that made it mean so much more to him. Sherlock was a self confessed sociopath, but John wasn't sure that was actually a case...the man had clearly had a very difficult life, and he had never found anybody who really understood him until he had come along. John thought that maybe he called himself a sociopath so he didn't have to deal with caring, and other people who wouldn't understand how to deal with his odd quirks. But John did.

"Well...it's a good think you don't have to deal with that, isn't it?" He replied.

The two of them didn't talk about how this conversation again, but their relationship changed slightly from then on. While Sherlock didn't become more careful when it came to cases and chasing down criminals, he was more aware of his own and John's safety, and regularly checked on his friend's welfare. And John...well, John became more comfortable with Sherlock, finally aware that the care he felt towards his best friend was reciprocated, and that Sherlock did really care about his general feelings and wellbeing.

So while he still got on John's nerves some of the time, and while Sherlock was still a bit of a twat a lot of the time, and he was still unable to express emotion most of the time...John knew that he was his best friend, and he knew that he cared about him.

And that was enough.

_A/N: I would just like to apologise for anything I got wrong medically, I did some research but was still unsure on a lot of factors. Please tell me what you thought and if there's anything I could improve on! Thanks for reading =)_


End file.
